


Days

by shonn



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/F, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shonn/pseuds/shonn
Relationships: Abbey Bartlet/C. J. Cregg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Days

She went to work on Monday and all of a sudden it was Thursday. How does that happen? Why does it keep happening? She's surrounded by people and places and things and events, none of which she has any control over, all of which she pretends to understand.

She wonders when she stopped sleeping and when she stopped knowing right from wrong. Now she's about late nights and beer and winning instead of champagne and dancing and ethics. Her priorities have changed, have become blurry in the face of democracy and gunmen and the battle between war and peace.

She wants to blame someone. She wants to blame the president because if it's his fault, then it makes it alright when she kisses his wife in locked offices and finds ways to tempt her into more. But she knows it's not his burden to bear, knows he is a good man married to a good woman who struggles with her own transgressions. 

Abbey never struggles against her though, not unless her fingers are moving too quickly or her hands are too cold. She knows she's in love with Abbey, knows Abbey wants to be in love with her, knows they have no future. Yet, she cannot relinquish the hope that exists when they touch even as she is well aware it is not hope. 

It is not satin and lace either, not for these two powerful women. She knows she wants more than she will ever get, has already gotten more than she ever thought she would. She recognizes truth and honor and loyalty are important traits, until recently had lived her life by them, and she knows she is losing part of herself with every impromptu indulgence. But she does not care, knows she should.

So when she is alone and there is no sound to distract her and her mind is clear of polls and reporters and immediate problems, she wonders where the week went, what she has accomplished in the grand scheme of life, if what she has can even be considered a life. Tomorrow is Friday or Tuesday or Saturday. It really does not matter, except it does because she has grown, has become a force, has earned the fear of those who used to taunt her. 

But she is still afraid of losing more than she gains, which means she has gained nothing but sadness and sex and wisdom she has no use for.


End file.
